


The Heart of a Bowman

by lobstergirl



Series: The King and the Bowman [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Barduil - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 08:05:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9428867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/pseuds/lobstergirl
Summary: Years have passed since their one night in the King’s tent. Neither Bard nor Thranduil has sought the other out since then, not like they did after the Battle of the Five Armies.Now Dale is prospering under the rule of her newly crowned king and Thranduil has begun to travel his own realm once more, tending to matters long neglected, getting re-acquainted with the mighty forest. Trying to ban the mortal from his mind.When Bard shows up at Thranduil’s door, heartbroken, Thranduil flees for he cannot bear to see Bard’s pain.But he cannot flee from his heart forever.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Susanne. Always.

The King’s archers were going through a combat drill. It was a light drill—jump, roll off, duck, nock, release. The Elven warriors went through their routine with practised ease, their motions swift and smooth, slender, graceful bodies moving in perfect synchronicity.

Amongst them was one who was no Elf. He followed the routine flawlessly and yet, his moves spoke of tamed power rather than the Elves’ effortless grace and his built was muscular rather than slender. He was slightly above average height, dressed in Elven drill gear, his dark, wavy hair tied back in a simple queue, his features grim with concentration. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his skin and that, too, set him apart for it took more than combat practice to make an Elf break out in a sweat.

“He has made good progress, my lord,” Rúmil, the archers’ captain, was saying. “His skill with the longbow is remarkable. His swordplay is improving, too. It brings me joy to work with him and he has earned your warriors’ respect.”

Thranduil nodded, careful not to let his features betray him. “It pleases me to hear that.”

Rúmil touched his hand to his heart and, bowing to his King, took his leave. Thranduil watched him take his place at the head of the archers’ formation, then let his eyes rest on the one his captain had spoken of.

Bard of Dale.

Years had passed since their one night in the King’s tent. Neither of them had sought the other out since then, not like they had back then. They had met on a few occasions of a formal nature and although there had been neither awkwardness nor signs of regret between them, neither had found his way into the other’s arms again.

While Dale was prospering under the rule of her newly crowned king, Thranduil had begun to travel his own realm once more, tending to matters long neglected, getting re-acquainted with the mighty forest. Trying to ban the bowman from his mind.

What was it about the mortal that one night with him had such a lasting effect? Bard was handsome, yes, but nowhere near as beautiful as one of the Elven-kind. He was a brave fighter, but nowhere near as good as his Elven warriors. He was a worthy king, but nowhere near as noble as Turgon of Gondor. And yet, looking at the man training as one of his archers filled him with a need so raw that he had to close his eyes to force himself back under control.

He had taken lovers whenever the whispers of his treacherous memory had become too loud and while these encounters had been mutually satisfying and welcome distractions, not one of his lovers, male or female, had made him forget he was their king.

Bard had made him writhe and moan shamelessly, had made him cry out with lust, and not only that. Thranduil had allowed himself to be physically claimed by the mortal, had surrendered himself to the bowman but it had felt like neither defeat nor submission. It had felt right. And when Bard had given himself to Thranduil in the small hours just before dawn, it had felt right, too.

Give and take, want and be wanted. One male to another.

He opened his eyes again.

There was his answer.

 

Rúmil’s voice ordered his soldiers to resume their initial position, signalling the drill to be over, and the archers started clearing away. He stepped up to Bard before he, too, left the training ground, placed a hand on his shoulder and exchanged a few words with him. Bard glanced up in Thranduil’s direction and when their eyes met across the distance, Bard smiled and inclined his head.

Thranduil returned the greeting and invited him with a gesture to join him on the balcony. He watched him shoulder his bow and head his way, and went to meet him halfway.

“Greetings, Bard of Dale,” he said. They clasped wrists, as was custom among Bard’s people.

“ _Mae athollen_ , Thranduil,” Bard said in slow and heavily accented Sindarin. “ _Glass nín le achened_.” _Welcome back. I am happy to see you again_.

“You have learnt to speak our language?” Thranduil asked, surprised. “You honour us.”

“Slower, I beg you,” Bard spread his hands apologetically. “I have only just begun.”

“You are doing very well.” Thranduil switched back to the common tongue. “How have you been faring?”

“I am better, my lord. Healer Amdiril has been most helpful. I cannot thank you enough for introducing me to her and I sincerely hope I’m not taking up too much of her valuable time. I would not want her to neglect other and more important duties.”

“Amdiril’s time is no-one’s to command,” Thranduil said with a smile. “She is her own mistress.”

He gave Bard a searching look. There was still sadness in the bowman’s dark grey eyes and his hair had gained a few more silver streaks, but the emptiness that had so alarmed Thranduil when Bard had come to seek refuge in the Elvenking’s realm was gone. The loss of a child would bring anyone to their knees and Thranduil had witnessed some of his most battle-tried warriors succumb to their grief, but it seemed Bard was on the mend.

“Walk with me,” he suggested and when Bard nodded his agreement, led the way down a narrow flight of stairs that opened into a wide corridor. “All is well in Dale, I hope?”

“It is. My son Bain is taking my place while I am gone. He has grown up to be a good man, and with his sister—” here his voice shook a little but he cleared his throat and continued, “—with his sister Sigrid and my most trusted adviser Tomis by his side, he will be a good ruler during my absence. They know where I am and I have come here with their blessing.”

“ _Berio den Eru_.” _May Eru protect them_. “How are they?”

“Sigrid finds comfort and strength in her family. Her youngest is a little ray of sunshine and has helped her through her mourning. Bain spent some time with Master Bofur of Erebor and has become quite the toymaker.”

“You have built a good relationship with the Dwarves then?”

“I have, yes. Dáin Ironfoot is proving to be a most reliable ally and the trade between Erebor and Dale is once again blooming. Even a few Elven craftsmen and –women have made their home with us and their goods and artwork are much sought after.” Bard smiled. “Rímedur, the Elven silversmith, has a waitlist so long it would cover the road to Mirkwood if he chose to tear the pages out of his order book and place them on the floor.”

“Is that so?”

“If your time allows, my lord, you should come and see for yourself one day.”

“Would you like me to visit Dale?” Thranduil asked, placing the emphasis on _you_.

“I should like that above all things. There is so much I want to show you.”

“Then I am pleased to accept your invitation.” He placed a hand above his heart and inclined his head. “Now tell me, bowman, why is it that I find you training with my archers?”

Bard shrugged one shoulder. “It seemed like a good idea. I’ve never had proper combat training, neither with the bow nor with the sword, and who better to learn from than the Grey-elves? Healer Amdiril suggested I should speak with Rúmil who very generously allowed me to join his ranks for the combat drills. For the first weeks it wasn’t easy and I felt clumsy beyond measure but it got better day by day. I think being king put me a bit out of shape. All that sitting around and talking doesn’t agree with me.”

“So you have found everything to your liking?”

“I have. Only—” he broke off, hesitant to continue.

“Yes?” Thranduil encouraged him.

“You left shortly after I arrived,” Bard said. “I understand your duties are plenty—stars know I have come to understand a king’s duties—but may I ask if I—have I overstepped a border, my lord?”

“I wish you would stop calling me that,” Thranduil said. “We are equals, you and I. You are no less a king of your people than I am of mine. There should be no such formalities between us. Not after what we have been through together.”

They reached a fork in the corridor and Thranduil stopped.

“I’ve only just returned from a long and tiring journey and I must own I am quite desperate for some rest.”

“I understand, my—Thranduil,” Bard said, the disappointment in his voice so thick it was almost tangible. “You will wish to retire.”

“That is not entirely correct. What I have been looking forward to during the seemingly never-ending last leg of our journey was not my sleeping quarters but a place where one can refresh and replenish one’s strength.” He met the bowman’s dark grey eyes and smiled. “Would you like to join me, Bard? From what I have seen of your drill I believe that you have more than deserved some rest.”

Something flared up in Bard’s eyes that made Thranduil’s heart pick up a beat and sent a tingle along his spine.

“If you wish.”

“I do.” _Very much so_ , he added in thought. _More than you know_. “Follow me.”

Taking the corridor to the left, he led them to a beautifully carved door that opened into a clearing that was his private resting place. Not many guests were invited to join him here, and not one of his lovers had ever set foot onto the soft moss or the winding pathway that led to a hot pool.

Numerous cushions and blankets had been laid out for him to relax on and the low stone table held fresh water, red wine and a generous selection of fruit, cheese and bread. On one of the two wide divans lay two robes and next to the other stood a small table that held an assortment of bottles containing fragrant oil.

A brown-haired Elf of slender build and medium height bowed to them.

“Greetings, my king. All is as ordered.” His gaze fell upon Bard. “I was not told you were bringing a guest. I will send for more wine and an additional set of robes for King Bard.”

“That will not be necessary.” He saw the fine wrinkles around Bard’s eyes deepen and decided now was the time to cut Elvish court etiquette short. “This will do nicely. Please see to it that we are not disturbed.”

A look of surprise shot across the Elf’s face but it was gone just as quickly, and he bowed again. “As you wish, my king.”

Thranduil followed him with his eyes as he removed himself from the clearing and closed the door behind him, needing to make sure they were truly alone. Drawing a deep breath, he turned around.

“Welcome, Bard, to my little refuge. This is where I come when I need to be by myself.”

“It’s beautiful,” Bard breathed, his eyes wide. “Peaceful.” He took a few steps towards the pool, taking in the small artificial waterfall that cascaded into the hot water, its tiny stream dancing across a series of rocks, glistening and sparkling. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Would you like to try the pool?”

“May I?”

The eagerness in Bard’s voice made Thranduil smile. “I do not offer what I will not give freely.” He started unbuttoning his tunic. “I have longed for this place since we began the return journey two weeks past. Join me. You will not regret it.”

Not trusting his self-control enough to spare even a side glance towards Bard, he turned sideways, busying himself with his clothes, the buttons and fasteners annoyingly small and stubborn today and he struggled as if he had never before undressed himself, but he eventually shed the last layer and turned around, only to inhale sharply.

Bard stood at a few arms lengths, bare-chested and barefoot, stepping out of his loose trousers, and Thranduil swallowed. He had dreamt about Bard, had fantasized about his body, his warm skin, his freckled shoulders and the hair on his chest and belly that was so different from an Elf’s smooth skin, but the reality was so much better than any memory. Years of not living hand-to-mouth any longer had taken away the sharp edges and months of working with the archers had added muscle. Thranduil feasted his eyes on the sight. Bard had always had a strong, lean build, but the man now standing before him all but brimmed with power and—

“You’re wearing the chain I gave you,” Thranduil said, and something like hope started to well up inside of him.

Bard touched the silver pendant that hung on a _mithril_ chain around his neck. “I am, yes. I haven’t taken it off for one single day. I merely asked Rímedur to shorten the chain a little so it won’t come off by accident. He recognised it for what it is and didn’t ask me to remove it even while he adjusted the length.” He brushed his hair aside and gestured for Thranduil to come closer. “See, he didn’t shorten the chain but somehow weaved the loose end into the new lock. The lock’s made of _mithril_ , too.”

“I see.”

Not only that. He felt Bard’s body heat. He inhaled the unique scent of him, a heady mixture of a clean, healthy male, the leather of his tunic, the fresh, clean sweat of a man who had just gone through physical exercise. He heard the husky note in Bard’s voice. It made Thranduil’s senses spin out of control and his body’s reaction was unmistakable.

“Thranduil,” Bard whispered and reached up to brush a strand of Thranduil’s hair aside. “I have missed you so much. Why did you go away?”

“Because I—”

_Because I couldn’t handle your pain. Because I would have torn my heart out to heal yours. Because seeing you like this reminded me of what I have lost. Because seeing you again made me wish for something that might be. Because I have longed for you, too. Because I could lose myself in you._

“Because I didn’t wish to impose myself on you.”

“You would never be an imposition. I came here because I had nowhere else to go. I needed to see you. I wanted—” he made a helpless gesture. “I know I’m mortal, Thranduil. You have lived to see hundreds of years and may live to see many more. For you, I will be gone in the blink of an eye even if the magic contained in this chain grants me the life span of the Dúnedain—”

Thranduil interrupted him, caught one of his hands in his own and lifted it to his lips.

“I am afraid, _mell nín_.” It was out before he could stop himself. “I have run away from you because I was afraid, and because I still am.”

With his free hand, Bard pulled Thranduil down, bringing their foreheads together.

“So am I,” he whispered, “so am I.”

And he kissed him, and Thranduil kissed him back.

Their bodies instantly recognised each other, just as if the years since their last and only encounter had been wiped out. Thranduil found all of Bard’s sensitive spots with unerring precision and Bard remembered what made Thranduil writhe and beg. Each took the pleasure that was offered to him and gave it back in abundance and when they reached the point from where there was no turning back, Thranduil asked, “How do you want me?”

Bard looked down between their sweaty bodies.

“In me,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Take me, Thranduil, please.”

“Are you certain?”

“Please. You’ve done it before. Claim me. Please. Make me whole again.”

When he was finally seated deep within Bard, Thranduil went completely still. What in the stars had made him think anybody else could make him feel like this? This was coming home. This was where he belonged—with this human who had touched his soul like only his wife ever had. Here was his chance for happiness and he would cherish it even more, knowing it had to end eventually.

He began to move, carefully at first, and a shudder ran through Bard’s powerful body as he adapted to the feeling of being stretched open like this. But soon he began to move with him, clutching the blanket with his fists and pushing back to meet Thranduil thrust for thrust.

“Up,” Thranduil commanded, kneeling up and pulling Bard with him. “I will not have you on all fours before me.”

“But I liked it—ah!” A strangled cry escaped Bard’s throat when the changed angle intensified his pleasure. He spread his legs wider, straddling Thranduil’s thighs, and soon found out how to meet Thranduil’s thrusts in ways that made Thranduil lose all that was left of his self-control and he started fucking into Bard, grunting and panting like an attacking Uruk-hai. Later, he would be embarrassed about the noises he had been making, but all he could think about right now was the man in his arms, fucking him right back, urging him on with hoarse shouts and throaty moans  that went straight into Thranduil’s system, making him double his efforts until he knew not where he ended and where Bard began. His thighs were beginning to burn and his body was slick with sweat, but he hadn’t felt this much alive in far too long.

 

Later, when they were floating idly in the pool, letting the hot water soothe their aching muscles, Thranduil brushed a finger across Bard’s neck where a purple mark began to form.

“I should apologise for that,” he said, “but I cannot. It will give food for gossip because it is not Elvish custom to, uh, leave marks.”

Bard reached for his hand and kissed the fingertips. “I don’t mind. Let them all see it. Besides,” a wide grin spread across his face, “I’m sure it is not Elvish custom to grunt like a Warg in heat during love-making.”

“It is not every day one conquers a dragon slayer,” Thranduil haughtily replied but his thin wall of defence crumbled to dust when Bard started laughing.

“You grunted,” he repeated, grinning.

“I did.” Thranduil raised his chin.

“Come here, my Warg-king.” Bard crooked a finger, beckoning for him to come closer and Thranduil obeyed. “ _Guren min gaim lín,_ ” Bard whispered against his lips.

Thranduil felt his throat tighten and he blinked rapidly. Bard looked at him, uncertainty in his eyes.

“Did I not say it right?”

“You said it perfectly right, _meleth nín_.”

“Good. I’m giving you my heart, Thranduil. What's left of it,” Bard said. He tried to make it sound light but Thranduil did not miss the tremble in his voice.

He twined their fingers together

“I will treasure it.”

 

With the wine gone and all but a few crumbs of the food left, they lay on the soft cushions, wrapped around each other under one of the blankets. His head on Bard’s chest, Thranduil looked up to the sky, at the stars that blinked through the treetops. The sight used to be the one thing that brought him peace. It still did. What brought him happiness, however, was the sound of Bard’s heartbeat, strong and steady.

The heart of a bowman.


End file.
